Here's a story one of my PC's wrote after his interaction with one of the main NPC's in the first Adventure: As a bit of background, he was shanghei'd in Port Peril. He's from Tain (Asian Country), and exploring the nina class. He volunteered as the cook's assistant (to Fishguts Kroup) and nicknamed Pinche (which actually means cooking assistant in Castillian Spanish).
I thought it was well written by the PC, and actually captured the dynamic that the writers made for Fishguts and the PC's.
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" Peenche. Ponchuu. Poncho. Pinoche. Pinnncheee. Pin. Chey. PINCHEYA!"
Fishguts chanted butchered versions of his name over and over. He'd
been at it since his second bottle. He was currently well into his
third. Or fourth. Pinche was too busy cutting, slicing, and chopping
to give much attention to the cooks daily attempt to drown in booze.
His hands worked the knives in a blur, a skill developed in his youth
for a much darker purpose. But it was a skill set aside years ago when
he pledged service to the great and honourable Lord Maximo, and was
now dulled by lack of use, age, and the Mwangi incident. A few days in
the Galley had brought some of the old skill back, but by the
Ancestors he still felt slow.
"Wha sort o' name ish that anyways?" Fishguts asked a space a couple
feet to Pinche's left. "Bah. I thinksh I'll jusht call you Squints."
He narrowed his eyes in imitation of the Tian eye, nearly fell off his
stool, and scrambled to keep his bottle in hand, juggling it for a
second before pulling it to his chest like a mother saving a child.
His attention firmly back on his drink, Pinche hoped the new nickname
was as transient as Fishguts’ span of attention. It was an insulting
and unoriginal nickname, and one he imagined many Tians in the west
likely burdened with. No need to add another.
Of course Pinche wasn't his true name. He was certain that no one
within a thousand miles, with the exception of his master, knew it.
Beyond that, it was written in the secret scrolls of his clan, but
never spoken once he donned the mask and joined their inner circle. A
true name is a weakness for a good spy and assassin.
The knife made the last few cuts, twirled in his fingers, and flew
across the galley into a chopping block he had set up to practice his
aim. Fishguts turned to look at it with one round bloodshot eye, then
turned back to Pinche and raised his bottle in a toast. "Nish thr..."
He started to say, noticed the sectioned and diced ingredients on the
table, and bellowed in surprise. "Argghh... no no no!"
Looking down in confusion, Pinche was sure he hadn't missed anything,
but the cook staggered to the table and pointed at some greasy purple
goo. "You hash to GUTs them firsht! Put that in the shoup and
everyone'd be heads n’ tails over the rails! Then they'd likely
keel-haul ush both!" Fishguts slumped back on his stool and wiped
sweat from his face.
Pinche didn't know what to say. On one hand he almost got himself
killed. On the other, he might have found the cook's best weapon. "Uh,
sorry." He said, looking down in a subservient manner. But his mind
explored the potential.
As he cleaned the ruined meal, retrieved his knife, and gathered new
fish, he asked casually, being careful with his speech. "Are ahsome
type of uh fishguts worse than a others?
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